


space and time and absolute lunacy

by wtfmulder



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-10-01 14:11:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10191713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtfmulder/pseuds/wtfmulder
Summary: Mulder gives Scully an office tower because he’s feeling grateful. Other stuff happens. Spoilers for Folie a Deux, Quagmire, Detour.The original prompt was: “Request for msr fluffy smut. Involves Mulder eating scully out, him calling her "baby" and/or "good girl", and maybe spanking her. ;-)”





	

How do you thank someone who’s agreed to be insane with you? 

 

***

 

On a dead-end case, in a dead-end town.

“I believe I owe you a tower of office furniture,” Mulder says, sides flanked with wine bottles. She’d brought pink to his hotel room last time, got busy with his body dupe over a bottle of red. He never has a clue what she wants.

“You forgot the cheese,” she notes. She doesn’t let him in. Apparently she wants cheese.

“The gas station had taquitos,” he offers dryly. “I could go pick them up.”

She relents and lets him in, realizing there must be something going on if he’s not following his normal M.O. of barging through the connecting door without so much as a knock. He puts the bottles down on the nightstand and begins pulling out chairs and lamps.

“Oh, you’re – serious.” Scully says, surprised. And a little disappointed.

 

***

 

“No!” Scully barks,  snatching the pillow out of his hands. “We need this closer to the top. We have to keep a firm base.”

They’re slightly tipsy and she only remembered to take her heels off about fifteen minutes ago. That had been a close call.

Mulder feels like he’s been slapped. “If the lamp falls it’s going to break then. But whatever.”

“Fuck the lamp,” Scully says viciously. What would this have looked like had they done this in public with two hundred other agents?

 

***

 

“I don’t think that tray is gonna stay up there, Scully.”

“I am a _physicist_ , Mulder.”

The tray holds perfectly fine.

 

***

 

She keeps rubbing her sweet little body against his to redo all of his hard work. What would this have looked like had they done this in public with two hundred other agents?

 

***

 

Near its completion the tower is too tall for Scully to reach, so Mulder does the last few adjustments. They’re officially drunk now, giddy, bottoming out on that second bottle of wine before they realized they’d gotten through the first. Scully likes pink _and_ red, like her skin right now, flushed from exertion from alcohol from watching her partner’s fine, sinewy muscles flex as he lifts chairs tables televisions her as she puts on the final touch, a little plastic bowl.

 

***

 

They lay in her bed afterward, Scully against the headboard and Mulder along the foot. He doesn’t want to leave. She doesn’t ask him to.

“I cannot believe,” he starts slowly, watching his hand wiggling in front of his face. “How difficult that was.”

“Well,” Scully says quite seriously, pulling her legs up to straighten her body out. It’s effective at making her look sober but the gratuitous slurring really counters that out. “I believe that our work – at the FBI – it can’t be quantified by –” hiccup “– towers of office furniture, or nugatory hobnobbing with a selection of the Bureau’s most socially dysfunctional.” Her head is too heavy for her body; it plunks against the wall. “Ya know?”

“Hobnobbing, yeah.”

 

***

 

Then the atmosphere changes, suddenly. Mulder is as aware of Scully’s presence as he is of being alive. Normally he just looks down to find her there and feels vaguely surprised she’s still around. And obscenely grateful.

“You kept your hose on,” he observes into the bedspread, reaching out to brush the seam along her toes. They flex against his palm. “You were slipping and gliding on the carpet like a terrible ice skater.”

“Forgot they were on,” she murmurs. He looks at her in mild disbelief, wrapping his hand around her foot.  

“I don’t believe that.” He shakes her leg in the air as proof. “They’re uncomfortable. They ride up in unimaginable places.”

“Wear a lot of pantyhose, Mulder?”

Without missing a beat: “Only when it’s cold out.”

“Besides…” Scully trails off, blushing prettily. She doesn’t finish her thought. He is ten times more interested than when he’d started this line of questioning.

“Besides what?” he demands. She licks her lower lip nervously and stares at the popcorn ceiling. This does absolutely nothing to abate his savage curiosity. He shakes her foot again. “Besides _what_?”

“I’m not wearing hose,” she admits. “I’m wearing stockings. It’s too hot for hose.”

It’s – too hot for hose.

That atmosphere changing, again. Mulder has this habit of not leaving when his gut tells him something’s about to get dangerous. Holes were drilled in his skull and he fucked a vampire. But this might be the most terrifying thing he’s ever thrown himself into. He’s gonna do it, though. Somehow he thinks he’ll push through.

Shifting slightly closer to her, like a park ranger approaching a wild forest animal, he kneels at her side so their knees are touching and his grip slides from arch to ankle. “Stockings, huh? They stay up pretty well.”

“You know,” Scully says. I do not, he shakes his head. “Black magic.”

His hand cups the back of her calf, fingers kneading into scratchy fabric and unforgiving muscle. “Black magic.”

A distant curiosity touches her features, the kind she wears on her face when Mulder says something outlandish and she acts like she doesn’t want to hear it. But she always does, is actually quite interested. Scientifically, of course. She chooses her next words carefully.

“Black magic,” she repeats. “Otherwise known as the standard garter belt.”

His fingers close down too hard around her tiny knee, and he soothes it with a short caress before tugging a little at the hem of her skirt.

“A garter belt,” he echoes. Time leaves them alone for a moment as he uses both hands to begin slowly bunching her skirt upwards.

“Mulder,” she giggles breathlessly, squirming in his grasp. It moves the process along quite deliciously. “It’s not what you think, it’s–”

“Black magic?” he supplies, his body going tense the moment the tan bands of her nude stockings are revealed. Two inches more…

“They’re practical,” she asserts, shaking her head. One inch more. “Not… sexy.”

“Not sexy,” he repeats. And then it’s done.

Scully’s right about one thing – they _are_ practical. He can only see the garters and not the belt itself – he’s pretty sure he will, at this point, and everything underneath it – but they line her pale thighs in stretchy white fabric. No silk or lace. But Mulder is floored, mapping out a detailed strategy to slide his tongue under the fabric and snap it with his teeth.

“Scully,” he says thickly, letting his thumb ghost down the line of one taught band. “Are you drunk?”

“No,” she whispers. Chancing a look at her face he finds her transformed, flushed and bleary-eyed. “I sobered up about thirty minutes ago. We didn’t drink that much. You had more than me. We had a big lunch.” That’s my girl, always got the facts.

Mulder grabs her roughly by the hips, then he lowers his face.

  
  
***

 

She feels silly with her skirt around her waist, his nose in her cleavage. But he won’t let her take it off.  
  
“Slow,” he murmurs into her open mouth. It’s dirty; she feels the word inside of her as if she said it herself. A heated kiss, and then his pink tongue dragging along the slope of her jawline.

But there’s slow and there’s _this_. He keeps their clothes on, hands above the waist. She feels it in him, his shaking restraint, feels it in the corded muscle in his arms and neck and the way he pulls away from her kisses to suck in a breath and nuzzle her hair.

“Of course you’d be bossy,” she says, without bite. But she is fraying also. Like always he probably expects too much from her, to stay solid and steadfast while he floats on and on. He laughs softly, pleased and a little desperate, and nips her throat in retaliation.  
  
He moves against her in heavy, languid pulls of his hips and controls her entirely with his mouth -- he had teased her, put her way off track with that first deep kiss to the center of her panties. God, before he kissed her mouth… just the thought makes her shudder beneath him.

But he who bestoweth may also taketh away, which he has done with gleeful rancor. He won’t even let her untuck her shirt. He stops her hands every time they move to touch him.

  
  
***

 

She tries. Every time she moves her hands he pulls away and shakes his head. Every time she lets them fall back to the bed.  
  
After what feels like an eternity of uninterrupted access to Dana Scully’s face, neck, and collarbone, the parts of her he sees every day and worships silently, he decides to reward her. She’s a trembling mess beneath him, staticky and overstimulated like doused wire. When his fingers slowly start to undo the buttons of her blouse, she babbles; a steady stream of curses and shameless pleading that make him shake and lose his place in his gratitude.  
  
He hushes her with more kisses; small grazes of lips on lips and longer ones, harder ones, where she meets his tongue with hers before their lips touch and distracts him so thoroughly he has to push hers back into her mouth to continue his work. That final button is a hard-earned victory and a vicious pride fills the both of them as she is bared before his eyes, freckled and pink like she’d spent the day in the hot sun.  
  
He notices she hasn’t moved in all of this, kept her hands where she told her to keep them.  
  
“Mm. Good girl.” He leans in to suck her earlobe into his mouth, lacing their fingers together and bringing their arms above her head.  
  
Even sillier now, with her shirt open and tucked into her skirt. “M’not a girl,” she complains feebly. Her neck lolls for better contact and he gets there, eventually, mouthing over his new favorite spots and trailing on to newer, more forbidden territory. “M’not a good one, either.”  
  
“You’re my girl, Scully.” The tops of her breasts spilling out of her bra are delicious and give in to his teeth like ripe fruit. “And you’re very good to me.” At the hint of debauchery there’s a pressing need to see her tattoo, traverse the ring again and again and again with his fingers and tongue. “Turn over.”

She does.

 

***

 

“I can’t believe you’re letting me do this.” The words are muffled by her small belly. They’re wondrous and reverent but Scully rolls her eyes, anyway, and huffs out an annoyed sigh.

  
“ _I_ can’t believe you’re taking the credit for this.” A flicker of tongue over her abdomen, dipping into sharp lines and soft curves. He pouts up at her, letting his lower lip drag across a tender spot on her rib.  
  
“I did bring the alcohol,” he reminds her patiently. “And the sleeves thing. I did that, too.”  
  
She cracks an eye open, watches him move down her body, rub his face in her clothed lap and rest his head there. “The sleeves thing?”  
  
“Yeah, rolled them up. Gets ‘em every time.”  
  
She smiles, a wicked thing, too small to be real. “Remember Florida?” Mulder nods apprehensively. “I wasn’t wearing underwear.”  
  
His head snaps up and his eyes fill with horror.  
  
Gets ‘em everytime.

  
  
***

 

Why do they pause? He likes to talk to her. It’s his favorite thing to do with Scully. Take her top off and it’s his favorite thing in the world. She rolls her eyes at his worst jokes and bests his good ones while lounging around in her wrinkled skirt and white, silky bra, dotted with damp spots in the middle where he tried to taste her nipples through the fabric.  
  
“I didn’t know you appreciated this much plotline,” she teases. Her chin does that thing that lets him know she thinks she got him good. But he’s staring at the lickable pouch on her tummy from his place against the headboard, so it’s arguable who's got who.

“You sure mention my entertainment choices a lot,” he replies vaguely. He’s distracted because her abdomen keeps moving, up, down, up, down, with her breath, and jesus Scully stop being such a tease. He forces himself to find her eyes. “Does it bother you?”  
  
She tilts her head up to study him closely, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. On her it looks like a wolfish grin. “Bother me, no,” she shakes her head, smiling. “It intrigues me.”  
  
There’s always been a mean streak in her. “More or less than dead bodies?” he asks softly. She climbs over him and arches a perfect eyebrow.  
  
“We’ll have to see--” she pauses to straddle his hips. “What it’s taught you.”  
  
His plan to hold her down and force her to sit on his cock is a good one, he’s sure of it. Serves her right. Through their clothes the tip of him will find that spot just right and make her cry and ride him hard but will never, ever give her any release. He’ll do it for hours. She’ll curse God. She’ll beg and beg and beg and _beg_.  
  
But she’s not sitting down on him. She’s moving up.  
  
He loses his cool in about five seconds.  
  
“I -- oh god, Scully.” Does he say that? The words may still be lodged in his throat. She moves up a couple more inches so she’s pressed against his belly button. “Are you. Scully?”  
  
A little more and her knees cradle his ribs. Her face is carefully blank, absurdly studious. “No?”  
  
“ _Yes_ ,” he moans loudly, grabbing at her hips with violent desperation. She tumbles forward without grace but lets him help move her along, right over the swell of his biceps and shoulders, until his face is pillowed by her soft thighs and she steadies herself on the headboard.  
  
Never in his life did he -- or -- in his wildest dreams had she… the normal fantasies made him come so quickly he couldn’t even get to something like this. His partner, Dana Katherine Scully, sitting on his _face_ with her stockings and her tiny white panties and her pencil skirt shucked right under her tight little ass. She’s bunching it up and looking down at him through the curtain of her hair.

“Hi,” she says demurely, and positively squeals when he yanks her underwear aside and shoves her down on his face. “Mulder!” she cries out, grinding against the flicker of his tongue. He only barely gets a taste, the panties are in the way. He can’t see her. He’s getting so frustrated he almost doesn’t notice her trying to wiggle out of his grip.  
  
“I thought you said _slow_ ,” she whines. He ignores her and tugs her upward by the pulling tightly at her garters.

“Off, taking these fucking off,” he demands. Hazily she’s surprised at his language, but not so much she doesn’t scramble in her haste to perform the complicated ritual of unsnapping the belt and garters and sliding them to the floor. Her ruined panties follow, but he barks at her when she goes to remove her skirt and stockings. “No! Get back over here.”    
  
She plays nice, crawling back over him and kneeling over his head. But her back is ramrod straight and she’s too far away for him to reach.  
  
“Scully,” he warns dangerously. He is staring at the sun. Right above him she is slick and spread wide and fat with blood and want, and she smells so fucking good he’s suddenly hit with the force of every good memory he has of her. His mouth waters, his teeth rattle, his hair stands on end. “Scully, sit down.”  
  
“I don’t think so, Mulder,” she says around a laugh. The movement makes her wiggle a little and he tries to chase her with his tongue. “I believe the theme was _slow_.”  
  
“Scully.” He tries a different tactic, begging, which could have the added benefit of making her come before he gets his mouth on her. “Scully, baby, you have to sit down. Come here.”  
  
She leans back away from him to meet his eyes with an odd look. “Baby?”  
  
Is… is she.. “Scully,” he says incredulously. “Are you really arguing with me right now?”  
  
“It’s a little weird,” she admits.  
  
“I cannot believe you.” He is actually in awe. Why is he hardening? “I am transported. I am a new man. I am forever changed by your ability to _adhere to the discourse_ in  any situa mmpmhh!” His eyes roll to the back of his head because she chooses that very moment to lower herself on his face. Whatever he’d been planning on saying to her is lost into her heated flesh.  
  
“Shut up Mulder,” she gasps.  
  
He parts her with one hard lick, catching the ridge of her sweet little clit on the tip of his tongue. He plays with it, says hello with a soft kiss, and takes it gently into his mouth.

“Oh,” she murmurs quietly. But he doesn’t think she quite gets it, not with the way she’s rocking against him -- tentative, a twitching motion that pulls her body away before he’s ready to let go. And the angle is all off -- she’s too far away, she won’t relax -- so his neck starts to hurt and she doesn’t get it, he _wants_ her and this isn’t enough.  
  
“Scully,” he growls, tearing his lips away from her. In a perfect world he wouldn’t even be able to do that much. The hands that curl around her thighs slide to cup her ass and pull her closer. “You need to spread your legs.”  
  
“Stop bossing me around and keep licking!”  
  
“I am _trying_ but you have to _sit down_.”  
  
“I’m not going to suffocate you Mulder, do you know how humiliating that would be? I would _oh my fucking god oh Mulder oh glory be to the father and to the son_ …” Mmmmmm, he replies happily. In his head he says, baby. Oh baby baby baby baby.

 

***

  
  
“Mulder,” she breathes after some time. If she’s still making sense… He asks her what, but he doesn’t think it quite reaches her. “You can… you can be a little rougher.”  
  
He stops for a moment and considers how to be rough with this. A real tongue lashing. He crushes his nose into her clitoris and twists his tongue a little, as much as he can, which she must enjoy because her pussy clenches weakly around him and her thigh muscles flex in his grip. 

“That’s -- that’s lovely but that’s not what I meant.” If she’s still making sense… but her hands cover his and he knows what she’s asking for.

He digs his fingers into her ass hard, and kneads the muscle in an attempt to bust some capillaries. She shudders and shoots off of him with an anguished groan. He thought they were over this. He tugs her back onto him and plays with her ass while she rides his chin and tongue.  
  
An idea hits him then, fantastically implausible and wholly unscientific. She’d never approve. But it’s worth a shot, anyway, and if he makes her come hard enough maybe she can forgive him if she doesn’t like it.

With her straddling his face he urges her to lift a little more, so her back is bent over the headboard and her ass sticks out. He caresses it, cups it lovingly, before snatching his hand away and bringing it back with a firm smack.  
  
She screams and comes all over him, grinding so hard the headboard smacks rhythmically against the wall.

 

***

  
  
Some missing time later she’s trying to get his pants off while he stares at her dumbly, wordlessly, as if she were some kind of unidentified craft or… he’s looked at pizza like this, before, too. But she’s flattered all the same, especially when his face is wet with her.

She taps her finger against a finely sculpted hip. “I’m gonna need your help here, partner.” He lifts without blinking and she drags the slacks down his long, long legs. Well, if he’s this far gone, might as well kill him.

She returns his gaze, deepens it, while her small hand cups his cock through his cotton boxers. One, two pulses against her palm. The fabric gives around the solid heat of him as she gets a quantifiable, languorous feel for him.  
  
His lashes flutter, and she loses all thought of teasing him (for the moment). Slack and sleek and this side of blissed out, Mulder is so endearing to her right now she feels as if she could do this forever. He looks _safe_ , his cheek cradled into her pillow, hips twitching into her touch.  
  
Despite the sentimentality that bowls her over there is something so illicit about what she’s doing -- this almost innocent fumbling -- something so naughty about touching him this way… more so than anything ( _anything_ ) else they’ve done tonight. Maybe it’s the way she lets her eyes caress the hard planes of him -- god, his fantastic body -- or that look on his face. It’s sinful. She feels like she’s corrupted him. An over-the-clothes hand-job is hardly the worst she could do. But he makes it feel that way.  
  
And then there’s the simple fact that she’s not supposed to be doing it, which never fails to get her motor running. And there’s how many times she’s thought about it. In the office, when he plasters himself along her back like he’s about to throw her down on the desk and screw all sense from her body, but he’s actually just trying to show her some information about a case or, hell, tell her where he wants to go for lunch that day. Or when they’re in the car and he puts two sunflower seeds in his mouth and jokingly pokes the tip of his tongue between them, hollowing in his cheeks like a fish. Mulder, with his effortless, slick-mouthed sensuality, his flirting and posturing and endless display of every violent, obsessive emotion known to mankind, is now reduced to a cuddling supplicant in the palm of her hand.  
  
The power is nice.  
  
She slips her fingers underneath his waistband, and he sobs brokenly into a pillow.

  
  
***

 

He tells her all the things he can’t bring himself to believe.

Mermaids, moon truthers, in God (except for when he’s desperate), in voting (except in local elections), the Federal Reserve System, jackalopes, in Beatles, that disco was really all that bad, it was probably just racism, that Elvis died _the way he did_ , in crystals, palms, and tea-leaves.  
  
She’s been teasing him for the better part of a half hour, kissing and stroking him until he’s thrashing beneath her, backing off until he’s (mostly) composed and coherent. His words and gestures float to the ceiling while she plays with his body.  
  
“And while I enjoy his writing, there’s no doubt in my mind the man was off his rocker and never should have even been trusted to sail those ships. It’s insulting to those who invest their time and chakras into parapsychology at the very least. At its crux it’s a dangerous belief system perpetuated by the continuous abuse of human rights.”  
  
With much affection, she hums into his neck and gives him a little kiss. She’s mildly relieved he isn’t into scientology. She never imagined he might be but -- what _if_?  
  
Half on top of him, her scalpel hand begins to retrace a steady descent to where their bodies are tucked together. It’s time again, time to make him pray to her God. But he catches her wrist right as it brushes his pelvis.  
  
“What I _really_ can’t believe--” his tone is low, and very, very skeptic. Lips on her wrist, fingers delving insistently under her bra strap. “--Is how you managed to talk me out of my pants before I got this off.”  
  
It snaps easily, and she spills out onto his chest.  
  
“Truth, Mulder--” and her tone is light, and very, very convinced, “--is stranger than fiction.”  
  
“Because fiction is obliged to stick to the possibilities.” They concede with a kiss.

 

***

 

Things in which Dana Scully _does_ believe:  
  
God (except for when she’s desperate).  
  
Voting (you can’t throw away your vote, Mulder).

Anything you can prove to her her, so long as she can see it for herself.  
  
And as he argues with her from his throne of flimsy motel pillows, she takes great joy in forcing his hand. He is perfect for her mouth, stretches her just slightly past comfortable. She loves the way his cock tastes, harvested sea-salt, a bit coppery; it makes her mouth wet, makes it swell with interest. She loves the way he groans when he bumps the tender flesh of her inner cheek.

But she especially loves the way he tugs on her hair when her eyes leave his, without fail, _instantly_ , every time, like he’s trying to pull her back to him. Holding his gaze she tries to kiss her own hand, wrapped firmly around the thick base, while her lips envelop the weeping tip. It's a delightful game that makes her gag and moan around him.

An insistent prodding at her swollen lips catches her off guard -- two of his fingers requesting access. It is granted. She sucks them in along with as much of his cock she can fit in her mouth and tries not to close her eyes as the calloused pads rub against her tongue.

When he slides them out he paints wet strokes into the the dimples of her back. Then they glide lower, lower, over the swell of her ass and between her cheeks. She yelps around his dick and pushes back against his fingers when they circle up around her anus, and he chuckles darkly.

But still they travel lower until they press between her engorged labia. He rubs her wetness all around, into her curls and her thighs, between his own fingers, and toys with her clitoris without any obvious interest. His movements are clumsy, dispassionate. He’s touching her because it gets him off.

She pulls off of him with a harsh suck and laps at the tip with the flat of her tongue, presses open-mouthed kisses along the shaft, reaches up to play with his pebbled nipples and steely jaw. And when he slips his fingers into her cunt, just to feel her bare down around him, she ducks her head and sucks on his balls until he’s screaming and begging her to stop before he comes in her hair.  
  
You, Mulder, I believe in you.  

 

***

  
  
And then Mulder gives Scully exactly what she wants: irrefutable evidence. Fortunately it’s not about aliens. Are you a breast man, Mulder? Yes, yes I am. I will prove it to you. Get your tape recorder, Scully.

But as he pushes them together and sucks and bites at her nipples and rubs his stubbled chin into her cleavage and pinches them and nips them and for a brief -- a little too brief, to Scully’s surprising disappointment -- slips his cock between them, and says things to them, he is also: pinching her ass, and combing her hair back, and licking her neck, and teasing her clit with measured thrusts, and caressing her belly, and kissing her eyebrow, and her mole, and the dimple of her chin.

So it really is unexplained, another X-File with no real answers doused in forever uncertainty. This is fine with her. She wants to believe.

 

***

  
  
And then it’s showtime, the Real Big Deal, and it looks like Mulder might back out.  
  
“Are you okay?” she asks him kindly, rubbing her hands down his chest. It concerns her that he looks scared. He never looks scared of anything.

He searches her face over and over again, and as soon as it looks like he’s found something he starts the journey all over again. His own is closed off and dark, and where did the light go, a few minutes ago we were blinded by it. Scully doesn’t let herself feel fear. But she does let herself tear up a little, just because she wants this so badly.

“We didn’t talk about this,” he says finally. It’s small and sad.  
  
“We don’t talk about anything,” Scully points out.  
  
“This is different, Scully.”  
  
“Is it?” The face reading, again, but he doesn’t say anything. Scully won’t let herself feel fear. She won’t do it. “Are you… are you regretting this?”

He looks sick, then, and reaches out to pull her to him even if the action doesn’t make any sense. He holds her, and says to her hair: “No. No, not at all.” He pauses, and there’s a shakiness to his voice when he continues that makes her realize he might cry. “You do talk to me, Scully. You talk to me about death and white whales and being crazy together. You scare the hell out of me, Scully.”  
  
“You scare me too,” she says, feeling quite offended. So she’s intense. Is _Mulder_ really going to call her out on that?

“It’s never been this easy,” he hisses, burrowing his face in her neck. “Not with you. Not with anyone.”  
  
“We can be easy, Mulder.” She pulls at his head so she can look him hard in the eye. “We can be easy. Not all the time. That won’t work. But when we want to we can. When we need to we can. We saw that tonight.” He stares at her again. “Stop trying to read my mind and listen to what I am saying, Mulder.”

In all of this emotional blabbering his erection hasn’t wavered, which tells her something about Mulder. But with as much difficulty he has in reading her mind his is all too transparent, and he is so ready, and he is not backing out.

  
  
***

  
  
“Slow,” he tells her. Together they strip her of her skirt and stockings, and think hard about positioning.  
  
“You on top,” Mulder suggests first. Scully agrees quickly. What was that she said about being easy when they want to?

  
  
***

 

She worships his body first, because she thinks he needs it. It’s not like it takes too much time out of her day. It is the one and only reason she loves him, anyway, and when she says this to him he laughs louder than she’s ever heard. It’s a very pleasant sound. She will hear it more often.

  
  
***

  
  
And he does it back, just because he can’t let her win. Ever.

  
  
***

 

And when they finally join together the fit is more comforting than sexy. It’s astonishing. It’s being surrounded by all the things that ever made you feel better. It’s listening to your favorite song over and over and over again, the only song you never get sick of. For Scully it’s “Clare de Lune” by Claude Debussy. Mulder’s impartial to “Mystery Train,” performed by the one and only.

They pause a lot to move around; neither of them can decide if she should be laying on top of him, so they can be really close, or if she should sit up, so he can watch her and she can watch him watch her. Even harder still is the decision to hold hands or not -- do I touch you all over, or do I tether myself to you. So they switch between both.

Of course it’s still a little dirty. He catches her biting her lip and bowing her head, and at first he thinks she’s just concentrating. But her eyes are open. She’s staring at where he’s slipping in and out of her, shining with her juices, angry red and ready to split at the seam with how long he’s been hard. And he says things to her, about her perfect tits and her cute little pussy and how long he’s wanted this, wanted her and them and easy all in the same sentence. She hisses at him and tells him she’s not easy. Of course you’re easy, Scully, you’re the easiest person I know. Baby. Baby baby baby baby.

  
  
***

  
  
The tower of office furniture falls, the lamp breaks.

  
  
***

  
  
How do you thank someone who’s gone completely insane with you?


End file.
